


Try the other one, it rings (if you type in the wrong PIN).

by hypnagogia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Retail, Attempt at Humor, Crack, Inaccurate Retail Experience, M/M, Minor Established Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley, Pre-Slash, Sexual Humor, Tom Riddle is a Himbo, Tom Riddle may or may not also be a Murderer, someone tell me if we have the name for that ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnagogia/pseuds/hypnagogia
Summary: ‘Look, I’m—mmh—so sorry.’The static sound did come out regretful despite the not-so-discreet mewl. Harry did not want to know how Ron had managed to pull that.‘But something came up and I just—’Harry covered Ron's shift and met one Mr Hep—no,TomSmith. The man was fit, undoubtedly so, if one can see past the gaudy pieces of jewelry he seemed to be into.The man might also be an inexperienced murderer slash thief. Either that or he was thoroughly wankered, which would explain the ridiculous amount of staring he did.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 17
Kudos: 112





	Try the other one, it rings (if you type in the wrong PIN).

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ['tis the season to be simping](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28262391) by [alfisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfisha/pseuds/alfisha). 



> we are going to pretend that i live in the us and not somewhere on its polar opposite so that i don't miss tom riddle's birthday. okay? okay.
> 
> update 04012021: edited! you might notice quite a lot of change bc i was a dumb fool. lesson of the day: never try to edit your directly on ao3 unless it was just a minor change.

_'Mate? You—ngh, hah—still there?’_

Harry inhaled deeply and looked at the ceiling, clenching his fist and gritting his teeth. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…_

_‘Harry?’_

_…sev—eight, nine, ten._ He forced out a long exhale and took the cellphone from the corner of the couch he had tossed it to, angling it just right so anyone on the other side of the phone—Ron, and, by the breathy voice he used, his git of a boyfriend hovering somewhere around his wang—could hear him clearly, and the sounds of their absolutely disgusting deed not so grating on his ears. ‘Yeah, I‘m here.’

 _‘Look, I’m—mmh—so sorry.’_ The static sound _did_ come out regretful despite the not so discreet whimper. Harry did not want to know how Ron had managed to pull that. _‘But something came up and I just—’_

 _Something_ came _, indeed,_ Harry thought wryly. ‘Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.’ He had to cut Ron off before he got himself even more irritated, or, even worse, heard more of the mewls Ron (or Malfoy) let out. ‘What time’s your shift—nevermind, 4 pm?’

 _‘Y—yeah,’_ Ron choked out, the last syllable dragging too long for Harry to pretend that that was not a moan. _‘Thanks mate, I o—oh—’_

Harry had never tapped the disconnect button more aggressively in his life.

He rubbed his face with his hands in a vain attempt to purge his head from certain details of the conversation. Sighing, he looked at the ivory grandfather clock across him, an unnecessarily extravagant monstrosity courtesy of one particular snobbish ferret. It was 3:15.

He only had 30 minutes to take a shower and have some semblance of a proper meal before riding the tube.

He made his way to the bathroom, only to remember that his landlord had yet to fix the building’s water booster pump which somehow was located in his flat, meaning that he had to substitute his proper late lunch and its allocated time with whatever sandwich was on the discount rack and a quick amateur plumbing fun time.

‘Fuck,’ he said out loud. ‘Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.’

* * *

A high-pressured burst of unfiltered groundwater to his face and a couple of 50% off cheese and pickle sandwiches later, Harry started the shift and immediately remembered why he had taken his paid leave that day.

New Year’s Eve, along with Christmas Eve, always sees the worst among late-shoppers. Should one expect people to stock up on their crisps and alcoholic drinks early on, one would be expecting wrong. Harry’s lips hurt from flashing his patented customer service smile (three years of working in retail does something to people, even the ones whose faces were never trained to mask their emotions) too many times to count. His lifespan might have shortened several years too, what with him getting so many mini heart attacks from seeing half-intoxicated customers nearly dropping their crates of Guinness within the span of five hours.

Whatever it was Ron said he owed Harry, he owed him double. 

Things, thankfully, started to slowly dwindle down into nothingness after that. At precisely thirty-seven minutes past ten, the store was practically a graveyard. No customer in any of the checkout counters and none approaching. Several counters were even deserted. He could see no customer coming into the store, too, and since his check out counter was the closest to the sliding door, he was rather confident of his observation. 

Harry stretched his sore arms and tilted his neck side to side. 

He started to entertain the idea of abandoning his post and wander around the sandwich aisle for dinner—maybe add an extra stop at the wine section and another extra stop at the crisps aisle? He _needed_ his emotional support cheap wine and sour cream and onion crisps, after all. It would surely be way past the start of the year by the time he could flop onto his bed and half-drunkenly watch some b-rated chick flick (a tradition he had cultivated since he was old enough to pick the channels on his own when the Dursleys dropped him over at Mrs Figg's, including the cheap wine part—the woman was rather careless when it came to her drinks, bless her), warranting a terrible start for his shift later that day. He reckoned that could always do the late notice thing his fellow employee seemed to have the hots for, or he could just cash in on Ron’s favour and—

‘Ahem.’

There was a rather fit customer in front of him, one that would pass as a GQ model, all high cheekbones and chiselled jaw—if it was not for the garish pendant on his neck.

A shame, really, because the ugly piece of jewellery aside, the man _really_ seemed like he just rolled out of the magazine. His suit jacket was impeccable, save the huge wine stain on its left breast pocket, while his white silk shirt—top two buttons opened, showing collarbones so sharp Harry had half the mind to jump through the counter and lick them until his tongue dried, at least after he yanked the godawful necklace off—was a tad rucked up.

‘Rough night, eh,’ Harry murmured.

‘Today is my birthday,’ the man replied. 

‘Ah,’ Harry flashed his tried and tested _of course I care_ smile at him. 'Well, happy birthday, then, sir.'

The man did not say anything to that, only continued to smirk at Harry like some sort of a creep. After a while, his mouth opened to say, ‘I don't suppose you would humour the birthday boy by entering the prices sometime soon?’

Nevermind his thirst thought; Harry did _not_ have the mental capability to deal with that kind of personality. A one-night stand was the only thing he could probably manage without stabbing the man’s gut, and that was only if he was feeling extra desperate.

(He was, though. He hated to admit it, but he _was_ feeling extra desperate. His last casual shagging partner had disappeared all of a sudden two weeks ago, and Harry had been with no one but dear old Rosie Palm since.)

‘Right. I’m sorry, sir. Did you bring your grocery bag? Paper bag will cost extra.’

‘Paper bag is fine,’ the man drawled. ‘It is not like I can not pay for them.’

Great, a pompous prick. Malfoy would get along swimmingly with this one. Too bad the ferret was way too poncy—and far too rich—to work retail.

Had he not been working in the retail for the last three years, Harry would’ve scoffed at that. He had been, though. He had faced down Karens and _won_ , so he put his customer service smile on his face instead.

The key, really, was on soulless smiles and subtle breathing techniques.

‘Noted, sir.’ _Garlic, bay leaves, sage, rosemary, seven bottles of red wine…_ ‘That would be three hundred fifty pounds and thirty pence. Cash or—’

‘Card,’ the man said, shoving the rectangular piece of plastic at Harry—who noted that the man wore a humongous ring that looked like it belong to the medieval era—before he even finished asking, which was decidedly _rude_. The man's other hand held a surprisingly bulky feminine purse that Harry _swore_ was not there before; a white faux fur eyesore with red dots so grisly it seemed like someone gored a pig and splattered its blood all over it.

(Harry also noted that the man's fingers were long with just the right thickness. In his defence, they were pretty hard to miss when the man all but thrust them into his face.)

‘It was wine,’ the man spoke, tone oddly insistent. ‘I was unfortunate enough to be nearby when an acquaintance vomited onto the floor and spilled her wine on it. It was wine.’

Right. ‘Sure,’ Harry replied quickly. As if he could care any less about the fashion nightmare—his mind was fully concentrated on holding himself from flinging the card swipe machine at the man (and repressing thoughts about those fingers). ‘Your PIN, Mister…’ Harry paused, looking at the name on the card, which was definitely dreadful enough to match with the purse, but also somewhat feminine—perhaps it was the man’s dead name?—before deciding to say only the surname. ‘…Smith.’ 

The man stared blankly at Harry before letting out a nearly inaudible _oh_.

For someone who acted like they wanted the shopping trip to be the shortest affair in their life, the man sure took his time to put the PIN.

After nearly a minute, the man turned the machine back while looking straight at Harry’s eyes. Harry pressed the enter button without breaking the eye contact. Asserting dominance is a very vital part in dealing with troublesome customers.

‘Okay, sir, this is your—’ huh. ‘I'm sorry, but it seemed like you typed in the wrong PIN. Would you like to try again?’

The man blinked, seemingly unfazed. ‘Sure.’ This time, the man took a slightly longer time before settling down with a number combination. He shoved the machine back to Harry. 

Another wrong PIN. ‘I’m afraid it’s still wrong, sir. Would you like another try, or do you perhaps want to try with a different card?’

‘I’ll have another try with this one,’ the man huffed. Three minutes passed only for him to end up with another wrong PIN. Before Harry could say anything, however, the man shoved another card at him. ‘Try this one.’

‘Alright, sir.’

Still the wrong PIN. ‘Would you like another—’

‘Yes,’ the man cut. Harry took a deep breath. _One, two, three, four_ —

Wrong PIN again. Prince Charlie’s saggy left tit. ‘Sir, I’m afraid—’

‘There is no other customer behind me. I want another try.’

Triple the amount of whatever Ron said he owed him. ‘Yes, sir.’

Wrong bleeding PIN. Again. It truly was a miracle that Harry had not put the man in a chokehold. ‘Would you like to try another—’

‘Yes.’

The cycle continued until the man tried six cards, and he still had the gall to rummage for another one. At that point, Harry was convinced that the man was either: a) very thoroughly wankered to the point where he could not remember whatever his PIN was, which would explain the way he stared at Harry, or b) a very inexperienced murderer slash thief whose brain cell count was so small he did not even think about getting the credit card PIN before murdering his victim.

‘Aha!’ the man exclaimed, hurling another card at the counter desk. Harry did not even try to camouflage his 4-7-8 breathing technique before taking it. He typed the total price in, mentally praying to the holy rat that rules all for an end to his suffering, and turned the contraption over to the man.

Who, once again, got the PIN wrong.

Harry wanted to scream. 

‘I’ll have another—’

‘No.’ No. No. Not even having Ron to pay his favour back in quadruple would be enough to compensate for the patience Harry had spent in dealing with this man. ‘I can pay them for you.’

The man tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I can pay them for you now, and you can pay me back in cash the day after tomorrow.’ or never, really—Harry wouldn’t mind either way. He really just wanted to continue whatever was left of his shift and take his wine and crisps without extra stops at the fresh grocery section.

A frown formed on the man's face. ‘The day after tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, I’ll be on a leave tomorrow, so the day after tomorrow,’ Harry replied, before quickly adding, ‘anytime you’re comfortable with, really.’ 

The man said nothing, but the frown on his mouth morphed into an _o_ , so Harry took that as an understanding and barrelled on. ‘Tell you what, call your number from my phone,’ he gave the man his phone, who then typed a series of numbers so quickly Harry could not believe it was the same man who had struggled with his PIN earlier. ‘Good. Now that you have my number, you can text me when you want to come and pay me back.’ Or invite him over for a one-night stand. The man might be a rude, pompous smug prick with fashion sense so appalling it should _not_ be called one, but he was still very fit, and Harry was still very much a thirsty gay man.

‘Okay,’ the man finally said. 

Harry nodded and took his own card. ‘Done. I’ll see you,’ _hopefully never, unless you’re offering a very adult-rated fun night, emphasis on ‘a’_ _unless it’s somewhat decent_ _,_ ‘around, Mister Smi—’

‘Tom,’ the man said as he took his paper bag, his eyes—which, now that Harry had stared at them so many times, turned out to have such an interesting colour. Were those brown? Maroon?—twinkling with delight. ‘Call me Tom. You paid for my grocery already—there is no need for such formality. And see you soon, Harry.’ 

_How did he_ —oh, right, the name tag.

The man—Tom—smirked and wheeled his cart away.

* * *

The rest of the shift went exactly as Harry had predicted; smooth and empty. He was about to check out his own groceries—the wine and the sour cream and onion crisps—when his phone chimed.

> **(Unknown Number)**
> 
> _Dinner at my place? I'll give you the money right after.  
> _ 00:02
> 
> _I'll be there in five. See you.  
> _ 00:03
> 
> **The sender is not in your contact list.**
> 
> **REPORT**
> 
> **BLOCK**
> 
> **ADD TO CONTACTS**

  
Harry read the message quickly, weighing the pros and cons of each response. Saying no would mean no free dinner and another night spent with Miss Palm. Saying yes would mean free dinner—a scrumptious one, assuming Tom's cooking skill was as good as the quality of the herbs he had picked—and, hopefully, a decent shag. He could always pull out the surprise power bottom move if Tom turned out to be a subpar partner.

Plus, if he played his card right, he could maybe convince Tom to let him stay the night and make a good payback to Ron's phone call earlier that morning.

Not a difficult choice to make, really. 

**Author's Note:**

> It was not until he sat on the dining chair across from Tom did Harry realise that he had worn Ron's name tag throughout the shift.
> 
> \---
> 
> some of you might find this storyline familiar, and that's probably because i did this [thing](http://hypnagogue.tumblr.com/post/638152093931307008/in-retrospect-perhaps-making-a-grocery-run-with) on tumblr. i wasn't particularly satisfied with it though, the characterisation felt very much off and that was just a bit of an ugh for me, so i decided not to post that here. fast forward a few days and then i found alisha's fic (which i have put down as the inspiration for this fic--give it a read, it's hilarious!) and it just,, clicked. this was supposed to be a christmas fic but then i got distracted by rl. ha. here it is in all its unedited glory bc it's now nearly 7 in the am. yeehaw. i'm going to get some sleep and actually start on grading. and maybe edit some misspellings. idk. i hope this is coherent. 
> 
> have a happy new year, everyone!


End file.
